


Where Do We Go From Here?

by indicates



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NHL Draft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indicates/pseuds/indicates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"See you in Colorado" makes it real, really real, that he is going to Tampa and that Nathan is going to Denver. Jo feels a little bit sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Do We Go From Here?

“I’m sorry,” he says, although he knows that he doesn’t need to be, and that he doesn’t need to say it, but that doesn’t matter because he opens his mouth and the words fall out before he knows how to stop them. 

Nathan knows he doesn’t need to apologize. Nathan knows that it’s an honor to be drafted first by a team like this, and he knows, too, that Jonathan is happy for him. He’s happy that Jo is going to Tampa, too… as happy as he can be. He’s just glad Jo wasn’t passed over, that he wasn’t off to do wonderful things while his best friend - no, he’s more than that, he’s a _lot_ more than that although Nathan will never admit it in a thousand years and then some - stayed in Halifax, a Moosehead for another year, hoping. 

The flurry of media and pictures and interviews, of cameras and microphones in faces, of new teams and handshakes and yes-sir’s, is over but the phones, two of them, stacked neatly on the desk nearby, flutter every couple of minutes. 

“Congratulations!”   
“Dude, awesome! I can’t wait to see you play!”  
“Always knew you could do it, kiddo.”   
“See you in Colorado.”

It’s the last one that makes Jo sick. He’s standing there, his ribs against the arm of the chair in this hotel room, to silence them, to ease the rapid buzzing so they can focus on each other. They won’t have much time to do so, not really, not after this. It was different in Halifax; it was different when he climbed into the passengers’ seat of Nathan’s car every day, wild-eyed and grinning as he leaned across the center console to bully the other boy into affection - poking his arm, nudging at his ribs, pestering him til Nathan finally cracked, laughing as he turned his head for the kiss that Jo was demanding in his pesky way. It was different when he could press in next to him on the bench, tight and flush against his side with battered hips pressed together, bruised from each other and hockey, panting behind visors and cages. It was just… different. 

But _see you in Colorado_ makes it real, really real, that he is going to Tampa and that Nathan is going to Denver and he realizes that it’s been a few minutes since Nathan has apologized, and that the other boy is staring at him across the hotel room, worried and expectant. 

“It’s okay,” Jo says finally, although it isn’t, and he has no fucking right to be angry but he is, anyway, he’s mad and there’s a knot of betrayal high up in his chest just behind his ribs, and another one made of guilt for feeling the way that he does. “It’s okay,” he repeats again, forcing a grin, because he knows he needs to be happy, _they_ need to be happy, because they’re not going to be successful if they’re not. And when he thinks about that it’s not just hockey; that matters, too, but _they_ as in _Them_ won’t be successful if he’s miserable about it and Nathan seems to be holding together so well and Jo’s voice is shaking and though he was going to silence their phones he chooses, instead, to shut them both off and toss them into their respective bags. They don’t need them, he thinks. Not tonight. 

Jo hops up on the table, or the desk, or whatever it is because he’s not sure about fucking anything anymore, and his toes brush the carpet that he’s pretty sure isn’t something he wants to be walking around barefoot on, but whatever. He’s staring at his knees, blue-plaid of his pajamas stretched over the muscle, and his fingers curled around the edge of the desk-table-whateverthefuck and he forces himself to take a breath because he realizes that he hasn’t in a while. He’s cold, really cold, cold from the inside out and he wonders if he’s shaking. 

The fact that Jo says “it’s okay” twice means that Nathan knows that it’s absolutely not, not even a little bit, because whenever Jo is out of sorts he repeats himself like that, over and over, like he’s trying to convince himself that what he’s saying is right. It’s okay. I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt. 

Jo’s a shit liar and Nate can read him like a book. 

“It’s okay,” Nate says suddenly, and Jo looks up so quickly he thinks he maybe pulls something in his neck. Nate keeps talking. “It’s okay to be upset about it, you know. Yeah, it’s the draft. Yeah, we should both be fucking excited. And I am, and I hope you are, too, but it’s okay to want to-” He pauses, thinking, and the seconds tick by and maybe it’s only three or four of them but Jo kind of wants to punch him right in the middle of the chest, and demand to know _what, it’s okay to what._

“It’s okay to want to fall apart a little bit,” Nate continues just as abruptly as he’s stopped. “It’s new. This. Being apart and all. But we’ll make it work, I promise, and it’ll be okay. I’ll call you every night if you want. Or Skype. We can Skype. And I’ll watch every game I can, and we’ll play each other sometimes, you know, that’ll be nice too. I’ll see you every chance I get.” Nate pauses, breathes for a moment, and he’s closed the distance between them with his fingers on Jo’s leg and he lifts the other hand, tips Jo’s chin up with his fingers and kisses him, soft and sweet and not at all like the ones he gives him over the center console when Jo is bullying him into it. 

He’s going to say something else, going to repeat himself, that it’s okay but he doesn’t have a chance, really, because Jo is pulling away a few inches to press against his chest; Jon’s fingers are curled tight into his shirt, fisted desperately in soft grey cotton and Nate can’t do a whole lot more than tug him forward on the desk a bit. Jo is smaller, a little bit, but not by much; two inches or so, and they’re the same size pound for pound, which might make something like this awkward. Nate doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, because Jo’s voice is cracking and he’s saying “I’m sorry,” now, just like Nate did, although it’s not totally clear what he’s apologizing for anyway. 

Instead Nate worries about mumbling, soft and low, cradling the other boy’s head to guide it against his neck, cheek on his shoulder, his fingers smoothing through his hair, stroking it back from his face. Jo sobs once, desperate and loud before he crumbles into silence, his shoulders heaving with wrenched breaths as he struggles to calm himself with Nate talking close against his ear and one hand sliding over his back in slow circles. 

He eases finally, still cold from the inside-out, fingers still twisted up in Nathan’s shirt and his breath coming in soft, short hiccups, weight heavy and solid against the other boy’s chest. He’s not sure, actually, how exactly it happens - but he thinks that Nate slides one arm under his knees and lifts him gently, lugging all one hundred and ninety pounds of him to bed. 

Jo cries himself to sleep.


End file.
